Does this man think I have fleas?
‘So,’ I say, rubbing my hands together because suddenly there seems to be an awkward atmosphere, which is ridiculous given that Si is one of my best friends. ‘Did you find anything good today?’
‘I found a wonderful Victorian washstand,’ Will says. ‘So beautiful and he took a good offer, so a bit of a win for me.’
‘Si?’
‘Nah.’ Si shakes his head, as Will starts laughing.
‘He was trying to buy a huge Victorian dresser, but it was obviously repro.’
Will looks smug, and I wonder what gives him the right to patronize Si in this way, because it certainly does appear to be patronizing, even though Si doesn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps simply chooses to ignore it.
‘Will knows far more than I do,’ Si says finally, deferring to his new partner. ‘About antiques, that is. Not much else.’ Si gives Will an affectionate squeeze, but this last comment doesn’t seem to go down all that well with Will.
‘So, Will. What do you do, then?’ Now I really hate asking that question. Not because I’m not interested in what people do, but because it really does epitomize small talk, which I loathe and detest because it is all so meaningless. Very occasionally you will ask that question to discover that the askee has a fascinating job, and you, the asker, can then fall into a deep discussion with them for hours. But more often than not they’ll say something like, ‘I work in computer programming’ or ’I’m a lawyer’, and you quickly have to think of more questions that you don’t really want to know the answers to, except you don’t want to appear rude. ‘Oh?’ you ask, feigning interest. ‘What sort of law? What sort of computer programs?’
‘He works in PR,’ Si says impatiently. ‘Remember? I told you.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ I try to think of the next question. ‘Who do you work for?’
‘I’m the Head of Press at Select FM.’
‘Really? How interesting!’ I strive for enthusiasm, trying to catch Si’s eye to make a slight face, but Si’s too busy gazing at Will in rapt adoration.
‘It’s actually a huge responsibility, but I enjoy it.’
‘How long have you been there?’ Jesus, this is like pulling teeth.
‘I joined two years ago as a Senior Press Officer, and when the Head of Press left I was the obvious choice.’
‘Right. Select is incredibly popular,’ I say, remembering all the features I’ve read recently about their new image. ‘You do a wonderful PR job. How many people are on your team?’
‘We’ve got four people working across the group, all of whom report directly to me.’
‘He’s very important,’ Si says, pride shining out of every pore. ‘Aren’t you?’
Will shrugs, too full of his own self-importance to give an answer.
Si leans forward and helps himself to more sandwiches.
‘Have some,’ I encourage Will, because if they don’t go I’ll be eating cucumber bloody sandwiches for the next week.
‘I’m fine,’ Will says disdainfully, still not having touched the sandwich on his plate.
‘Oh God,’ Si groans. ‘I’ll have to make a confession now. I’m sorry, Cath, but we went out for a huge lunch. That’s why Will can’t eat anything.’
Right, I want to say, and why can’t Will speak for himself, but I know Si’s just trying to protect him.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘not a problem,’ although if this lunch were so huge, how come Si can still manage to stuff himself?
‘You know,’ I look at Will, suddenly interested, ‘I know someone who works for Select.’ Si looks thrilled: if I have a friend there he can find out everything he wants to know in one easy phone call. ‘Alison Bailey?’
‘Of course I know Alison,’ Will says. ‘How do you know her?’
‘God, I’ve known her for years. We used to work together at an ad agency before she switched sides and moved into sales. She’s pretty senior now, isn’t she?’
Will lets out a short barking laugh. ‘She’s the Deputy Sales Director. So not that senior.’
I wish I could tell you that it got better. It didn’t. It got worse. Even Si started to look vaguely uncomfortable and took the first opportunity he could to whisk me into the kitchen.
‘You just hate him, don’t you?’
I sigh and look at my lovely friend, wishing I could like Will, wishing, at the very least, I could lie about it, but I just can’t. But nor can I be entirely honest.
‘He seems very nice.’ I grit my teeth.
‘Oh, come on, sweets. You can do better than that. Be honest. Tell me what you really, really think?’
‘Really really?’
‘Really really.’
‘Even if you might not like what I have to say?’
‘If I can’t rely on my best friend to tell me the truth, who can I rely on?’
‘Okay.’ I take a deep breath. ‘It’s just that he seems a bit arrogant.’ I pause, checking that Si’s okay with this. ‘And you know that arrogance doesn’t go down particularly well with me.’
‘He’s not usually like that,’ Si whispers quickly, watching the door to make sure Will doesn’t surprise us both by coming in. ‘I swear, Cath. I haven’t seen him like this before.’
‘So you mean even you think he’s a bit of a wanker today, then?’ I say, smiling.
‘I didn’t say that. I just meant that he’s normally very laid-back.’
‘And you know that because you know him so well.’
‘Now who’s being catty? Anyway, more to the point, how well do you know Alison Bailey?’
‘Do you mean do I know her well enough to ring her up and get her to dish the dirt on your friend Will?’
Si idly traces a finger along the kitchen table and looks at the floor. ‘Maybe,’ he finally concedes.
‘Okay,’ I say, as his face lights up and he gives me a big kiss. ‘I’ll ring her when you’ve gone.’
‘Find out everything,’ Si says. ‘And I mean everything.’
‘Cath? Christ, I haven’t spoken to you for ages. How are you?’
‘I’m really well. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know, same old Alison, same old life.’
There’s an awkward silence, because, much as I like Alison, we both know that I wouldn’t be phoning just for a chat, because we hardly ever see one another these days, and there has to be a point. I now have a choice: I can either beat around the bush and ask about her family, her job, whether she has a man in her life, or I can come straight to the point.
I come straight to the point.
‘I’ll tell you why I’m ringing,’ I start. ‘I’ve just had your Head of Press over for tea, and I wondered what you thought of him.’
There’s a silence. Then: ‘You’ve had Will Saunders to your flat for tea?’
‘Umm. Yes. Why?’
Another silence. Then: ‘He’s a cunt.’
And I have to tell you, I nearly drop the phone. Not just because of the abruptness of her response, but the ‘c’ word is not one I employ in everyday conversations. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I heard it, let alone used it.
And Alison is possibly one of the straightest people I know. She’s so bloody sensible she makes Mary Whitehouse look rebellious.
‘You are joking,’ I venture, still shocked at her language.
‘Nope,’ she says. ‘And I can’t believe you entertained him in your house. God, you should have told me. I would have come round and put arsenic in the sandwiches.’
‘Why do you hate him so much?’
‘How long have you got? I’ll tell you this, though. When Will Saunders chooses, he can be the most charming man you’ve ever met. I suppose he charmed you senseless?’